Burnt Offerings
by Sonnet Lacewing
Summary: When murder hits Booth's own church, his world is shaken. The investigation reveals a maze of victims who are both admireable and detestible. Solving it will take the loyal help of Brennan and examination of his own beliefs. Rating for graphic content.
1. Prologue Inspiration

_**Disclaimer – This is based off of the Television Series "Bones". The story is mine. The characters belong to FOX)**_

_A/N: This is my first Bones Fic. I'll try to be quick, but I don't get much time to write these days._

**Burnt Offerings**

**Prologue - Inspiration**

Confession is good for the soul, right? That's what they say. It's what _she _had said many times herself, when advising others. After years of maintaining her secret, the initial revelation felt good. There was no one in the world she trusted more than Father Thomas. He was a good priest – an honorable man whom she could trust with her secret. Or so she'd thought.

When suddenly he was upon her, it took her by surprise. He'd said something, but it made no sense to her. He'd pushed her down and yanked at her corset. When he'd failed to get his hands under, he'd instead grabbed her crotch. She supposed she'd expected castigation – but there had been none. There had been disbelief, but it was momentary. His advances turned sexual, predatory, and vile.

Dana scrambled from his clawing grasp in desperation, her mind unable to understand what was happening. There was never a moment when she thought, _hit him with the candlestick_. It just happened. It met his skull with a sickening, wet crunch and he fell away.

She was breathing in explosive gasps, fighting the urge to flee. Any other woman would have run, she supposed. But she had to know – what would happen to her now? She forced herself to look at Father Thomas, but he hadn't moved. His eyes were glassy and fixed. As if the signs of her sin had been predicted, his positioning perfectly mirrored that of the stained-glass window above him: hands now spread in a welcome gesture, one leg crossed behind the other as if he'd taken a step forward. And like the window, he was not breathing.

Dana grabbed the candlestick and shoved it through the sacristy door, before she fled the scene. She never imagined that there had been a witness to it all. He'd watched without making a sound, transfixed by the sudden violence. After Dana had gone, the watcher calmly walked down to look at the body. He admired the way it lay beneath the window, so perfectly mirroring that depiction of Christ. It was a work of art, he thought – one which should be set in a more eternal pose. So he drenched the body with the wine he'd brought with him, then he picked up a candle from the prayer bay and touched the flames to Father Thomas' clothing.

The watcher left the church just before the blaze began to grow. He was unnoticed.

* * *

Tempe was asleep, dreaming a lovely dream that would escape her the second her mind understood that her cell was ringing. And though she usually was able to wake instantly and talk coherently, this time her greeting was more of a grunt. "Lo?"

"Bones, we have a body."

"Booth?" It was almost a croak.

"I'm sorry to wake you, but this just can't wait until morning."

Booth didn't usually sound frantic. It was important to get as much evidence as possible from a scene, but Tempe's part usually wasn't so time-sensitive. Most of her job was gathering evidence from a tissue-less corpse when no other evidence was present. Tempe didn't question him though. There was something in his voice that she couldn't put her finger on; something that made her think he needed her to help without asking why.

"Where should I meet you?" she asked. She was much more coherent now, and she stood to pull on clothes, her head crooked against her shoulder to hold the phone in place, while she switched on the light and shook free of her nightgown.

"Saint Patrick's on Tenth Street. But I should meet you a block or two away. There's a lot of press here." Booth sounded weary and perhaps sad.

"Saint Patrick's? Your church?"

"It was," he said before he disconnected.


	2. Chapter 1 Stiff Cooperation

**Chapter 1 -- Stiff Cooperation**

"…don't you have anything else pressing at this moment, Agent Booth?"

Booth pulled the cell away from his face and stared at it, imagining himself saying a few choice profanities to his supervisor. He swallowed the insults, took a breath, and put the phone back against his ear. "Sir, this is where you want me. There's press crawling all over this. In a few short hours, the local police will kick it up to the FBI, who will kick it up to you. I figure it's best if I get a jump on things before the morning news hour."

Assistant Director Davis was silent, never suspecting he was getting echoes of a conversation Booth had had with Davis' predecessor about two years before.

"This is a popular church, A.D. Davis; there will be public outcry. If the deceased would happen to be a priest, a lot of angry parishioners are going to want answers," Booth added, just as he saw Brennan's car pull up in front of him.

Davis sighed heavily. "All right, all right. You've convinced me. Find the killer and find him fast, preferably before anyone in the press hears we're looking into it. Keep a low profile."

"Yes, sir," Booth said. He hit the end button. "You fucking putz," he added, trusting that Davis couldn't hear, just as Brennan's head emerged.

She stood there, arms resting on the roof of the car and the edge of the car door. She looked very tired. "Booth," she started hesitantly. Was that compassion? He didn't want that from her.

"Brennan, thanks for coming out in the middle of the night." Booth suddenly wasn't sure he'd done the right thing. It might have been better to call Cam first, but Cam would be sympathetic and he didn't want that. He wanted to stoke his outrage, not his grief. Things between himself and Brennan had been strange since Christmas, he had thought she'd be all business. Caroline Julian had insisted on being "puckish" and the resulting kiss hung between Booth and Brennan like something supernatural they both refused to acknowledge. "You'll want a hot suit," he said.

"The church burned down?" she asked, blinking in disbelief as she grabbed her field bag.

"Not all of it," Booth replied. "Just where the body is. And you know the rules. It's an old building. We've got to do everything by the book." Of course, Booth had already broken a few of the rules, but he had no intention of sharing that information.

Brennan looked at him sideways and bristled slightly. "I always follow investigatory rules when approaching a crime scene."

Awkward. It had been that way for two months, though this was the first time he'd actually appreciated it.

Both put on "hot suits", protective gear that crime scene investigators in the DC area now wore whenever entering a fire zone where unknown chemicals might exist among the rubble. This rule was only six years old – something that came after the 9-11 attacks and the resulting illnesses that rescue crews suffered from working at ground zero without gas masks and protective clothing. Booth wanted the added symbolic insulation that came with the gear, but not to protect him from something outside.

The pair walked back into the crime scene, flashing their credentials for the policemen guarding the tape barrier and ignoring shouted questions from the media. Brennan turned a questioning look on Booth that he could just barely see through her mask. "Why are there still police on scene?" she asked into his headset. "Hasn't the FBI officially taken over yet?"

"There's a bit of a jurisdictional conflict," Booth answered. "AD Davis said he'd have it resolved in a few minutes. In the meantime we should gather as much information as we can." He saw Brennan's steps falter only briefly as she absorbed this.

There was no longer a door to Saint Patrick's. The stones had not been burned, so the narthex and vestibule appeared intact, though charred. Inside the nave was appalling destruction. Booth swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat, just as he heard Brennan gasp into her headset. The sound enraged him further, because her shock did not come out of respect for his church and what it stood for – she was probably bothered by the damage to a historic building. At least, that's the way he preferred to view the sound she'd made at that particular moment.

"Booth, it's so…"

"The body is over there," he interrupted, pointing to where the body had been positioned beneath the stained-glass window. He could have shown her crime scene photos and provided her the body, but he believed there might be things she'd spot from the scene – things that would give him the jump on the sonovabitch that had defiled his church.

Then he watched her as she got to work, marking things, observing things, measuring things. All the while he seethed, building his hatred for the perpetrator.

It was then that the police crime scene team arrived. Booth smiled in satisfaction. "Too little, too late," he muttered to himself as he turned to greet them.

Brennan, who had heard him on her head set, asked, "What did you say, Booth?"

"Just keep doing your magic," Booth replied, cringing at the words he'd chosen. Brennan would probably misconstrue that and point out that her "magic" was science. "I've got another jurisdictional misunderstanding to straighten out."

To his surprise, Brennan only said a quiet, "Okay."

"When did this become priority of the Feds?" the crime scene team leader was asking.

Booth approached him just as three cell phones rang at once, including Booth's. He pulled his out and glanced at the display, spotting the donkey picture he'd assigned to his supervisor's phone number. He answered with, "Agent Booth," knowing that he was about to get the official assignment. Simultaneously, he heard Brennan muttering to herself over his headset, "What is that?"


	3. Chapter 2 Cursory Identification

Chapter Two – Cursory Identification

Tempe leaned in and examined the hip of the fire victim. The fire had burned at a high temperature at first, effectively charring the flesh of the man on the top side of his body, while leaving the bottom side only seared on the outside, but no doubt liquefied within. This was a corpse that Cam would normally deal with, not Tempe, though she didn't feel like pointing that out to Booth. She was wearing gloves, but she still used hemostats to pry at the item that had probably once been in the man's pocket

Someone kneeled beside her – she wasn't sure who because the hotsuit was a different color than the FBI used. Tempe covered the hand of the victim almost possessively and stared up at the person who was inching in on her crime scene. The vaguely familiar face before her was saying something, though she was unsure what. She'd turned off the filter that would allow her to hear outside sounds. She'd not wanted distractions. In fact, she'd only switched on the speaker that would allow her to hear Booth.

Tempe found the dial that adjusted the speaker and sound filters. The man before her must have realized this, for he said, "I was asking if you had found something, Dr. Brennan."

She looked more closely at the face behind the protective shield. Clark Edison. "Isn't this an FBI Crime Scene?" she asked, sounding far more elitist than she'd ever intended.

Clark Edison drew back a bit, regarding her with a look she couldn't quite put her finger on. "I see no reason why we can't help one another," he replied. "Your focus will naturally be on the body, and you don't seem to have a team to examine or catalogue any other evidence. Certainly there should be a great deal of evidence at this scene. I had thought a cooperative effort would be a scientifically acceptable method. We can certainly let you take the lead."

The last words held bite and Tempe cringed. "Yes, of course, Mr. Edison. I could use assistance," she acquiesced, realizing by his frown that she'd still managed to offend him somehow. "I recently spent some time in Peru, where everybody wants nothing more than to interfere in a crime scene. I don't think I've completely readjusted."

"Any idea why?"

"I think they somehow confused anthropologist and archaeologist."

He snorted. "They must have thought you were Laura Croft."

"Who?"

"Tomb Raider."

"No," Tempe said, shaking her head. "All my papers were in order. It could hardly be considered raiding."

Edison gave her an incredulous look. "I meant the video game -- Tomb Raider. It's very popular."

There was an uncomfortable silence in which Tempe felt a little like she had in the first year and a half of working with Booth. She finished prying the melted metal away and examined it. Edison closed in and examined with her. "What do you think it is?" he asked

"If this were a body from the prohibition era, I'd guess a hip flask, though it must have been made from something that melted easily. Either that or his pocket was a flash point. There's also some strange beading here, but it could have been two separate items – perhaps a rosary wrapped around a flask. I'm not allowed to do a smell test now…"

"It probably smells like liquor," Edison inserted, finishing her thought. "Perhaps it even provided an inadvertent accelerant."

Tempe shifted uncomfortably. Clark Edison was very bright and well-versed on forensics. She'd chosen not to hire him because she was still hanging on to hope that Zack would return, which he did shortly after Edison's interviews were terminated.

"Are you with the police now?" she asked, as she bagged the metallic item.

"The new priority crime unit has added a few civilian specialists. I'm interning with Dr. Chavez as part of that unit, and I should finish my doctoral thesis this fall. "

"Dr. Chavez is very good and very picky. He doesn't take just anyone."

"Like you?"

Tempe blushed. "Dr. Addy returned. It was the reason the interviews were terminated."

She had allowed Booth's conversations to become background and so she was surprised to see him lean down beside her. "What can you tell me, Bones?"

She grimaced. There was little point in telling him not to call her that. Truth be told, she'd probably miss it if he did. She wasn't about to divulge that charming revelation.

"Man or woman?" Booth asked.

"Man." She turned to give Booth more of her attention. Even behind the face plate of his hotsuit, Tempe could see that he looked pale and exhausted. "My cursory guess at age is early forties. There is tissue on the lower side of the corpse, so DNA will be simple. Moving the body will require some cautious effort because of the heat of the fire. The fat inside the seared tissue will be liquefied so…" She could see that Booth was starting to look nauseous so she desisted.

"Do you have any other clues to identity?" he asked through clenched teeth.

Tempe glanced back at Edison, who was still there. "Booth, this is probably a priest. I'm sorry." She wasn't sure why she had apologized. It just seemed like the thing to do.

"Rosary?" Edison asked.

"That and the age of the individual, the time of death, the sex, and what is left of the right shoe. Priests do not often buy new shoes, even when they are needed. You can see that the sole is not rubberized, but leather over a hardwood block heel, something we wouldn't have known if that foot had not been protected by his other leg. If those shoes were not nearly as old as the man here, they came from a vintage clothing store."

She heard Booth sigh heavily and there was sorrow in his brown eyes. "Thank you, Tempe," he said softly. And that was very strange. He'd just called her by her first name.

"Keep this information as quiet as possible – the press is trying to get anything they can." Booth ordered, after taking a long, deep breath. He turned toward Edison. "I've agreed not to lock the police out of the crime scene, but be aware that most reporters have a police radio. Do as Dr. Brennan directs or you'll have to answer to the FBI."

Booth stood and walked away. Tempe could tell by Edison's expression that he did not like being ordered around by Booth. He returned to measuring the scene, and she resumed her focus on the body. She hoped this wasn't the priest that Booth had spoken so highly of, but something in his demeanor made her fear that possibility.


	4. Chapter 3 John the Baptist

**John the Baptist**

It was so simple. _Ask and it shall be given. _John had never before asked to hear his direction. Certainly he had heard enough disembodied voices speaking to him in his lifetime, yet he had never thought to pray for guidance before that night. John had not slept since he'd baptized the dirty priest in fire. He was far too giddy. Over and over his mind replayed the scene he'd witnessed. He couldn't hear what the two had said to one another, only knew that the taller one had attacked the smaller, the display a filthy perversion of how a man of God should behave.

But then, there were many filthy perversions. Worse than merchants defiling the temple of Christ's youth with their lust for money – today's filth had dressed as holy men, slept in the beds of holy men, spoken of prayer and forgiveness, then preyed upon the small. Filthy, disgusting perversions!

John had found his path. He would cleanse these abominations and make way for His return, just as John the Baptist had done once before. He had only needed direction, and yes, oh yes, this was it. He could be the second coming of the voice crying in the wilderness, though the wilderness was now a sea of concrete and steel rife with crime and despair. He was a hero and God's instrument.

He knelt to pray and thank God for the mission – his soul so grateful, his heart so full. And he could hear the same voice that had directed him to the church in the first place. Now he was sure that that one belonged to God, the others could be ignored. He would use the direction of the gospels, to be John the Baptist reborn. He would destroy the abominations – all of them. And he knew exactly where to go next.

* * *

It was painful to sit in the rectory of Saint Patrick's and speak with the priests that frequented the pulpit of his church – priests who Booth must now regard as potential suspects. He folded his hands around the mug of coffee he had been provided by Most Reverend Ernest Arneson, who was retired and a permanent resident of the parish. Booth was struggling to cling to his interview training – something he hadn't had to think about in years. Usually his instincts guided him, but today he felt he couldn't trust them, as though his faith might betray his duty.

"Your face is familiar," Father Ernest said, a fact that was off-topic in so far as they had been discussing who was where in the nighttime hours.

Booth looked up at Father Ernest, intending to answer, yet his voice faltered and he couldn't think of a response that didn't give away too much or lead to other things. Training said his answer should be polite and close off the avenue of discussion, leading this witness/potential suspect back to a carefully guided interrogation. Booth forced a cough, rubbed his throat and took a sip of coffee, while his mind scrambled for the prescribed answer.

"I've seen you at mass, haven't I?" Father Ernest continued.

Booth could only nod almost imperceptibly. He couldn't lie to a priest, even if the lie was necessary to be professional.

"How devastating this task must be for you," Father Ernest observed, patting Booth's hand. "Here I was thinking how much I detested the thought of having my parish turned inside out." Booth could only stare at his hand – the point of contact. He felt numb.

"Did you know Father Thomas?" Father Ernest asked softly.

Again, Booth nodded. Suddenly reduced to the position of a rooky, his interview had been taken over by the interviewee. Worse, Father Ernest had taken for granted that Father Thomas was the victim, and Booth had long ago learned that suppositions of that sort could lead an investigation in the wrong direction. By the dread he was experiencing, his gut was telling him the same thing, though at present, Booth refused to admit it. He looked at the surface of his coffee and wondered why it was as turbulent as a sea.

"Poor, dear boy," Father Ernest said, his eyes also on the shaking coffee mug. He patted Booth again, this time on the shoulder, and Booth found himself wishing he'd brought Bones with him. He'd purposefully not shared where he was going – the last time a murder investigation had taken the pair to a parish, he'd felt slightly incensed by some of her questions, remarks and disrespectful behavior. Now, he needed an edge, even if it came as misdirected anger at his partner.

"Father Ernest," Booth started, trying to regain some control, "What makes you so certain that Father Thomas was the victim?"

The retired priest sat back in his chair. "Well, if you knew Tom, you knew a man who took his calling seriously. As monsignor, he would most certainly be here in our time of need. Only death would keep him. What I cannot imagine is why anyone would kill him. He wasn't just a good man – and he was – the best -- but he was also a good priest. I was proud to work beside him, proud to pass the parish to him, and proud to spend my final years watching him shine. Ask any member of the parish and you will hear the same. Ask any member of the congregation – there will only be good things said about Father Thomas Cleary, mark my words."

Booth smiled thinly. He _was_ a member of the congregation, and he _did_ have only good things to say about Father Thomas. It was the reason he wanted nothing more than to find the person who'd done this and punish him. Perhaps it was grief misguiding his intuition, but there was something he didn't like about Father Ernest. In his current state, he could not put his finger on it.

"Since the authorities arrived, the parish has been in turmoil. We knew the moment we couldn't find Tom that he was gone. It is the reason that the rest of the parish priests have spent the morning in devotion, even though they know the flock will need them. He wasn't just their priest, he was their friend, as he was mine." Father Ernest let a tear slide down his cheek. "I can't believe someone would do this – this – this vile thing to him."

The old man's grizzled face quivered. "I know the Lord has told us to pray for our enemies. I'm sure Father Thomas would have done so – it's the kind of man he was. But I'm praying for you, Agent Booth. You find the one who did this." He gave no more directive, though Booth imagined the rest was something a priest should not say. For Booth it was as if he'd been given permission to pursue a dark urge. It was a fact that alarmed him, turning his insticts inside out.

Booth nodded again. There were more people to interview, but he needed some distance first, and maybe he'd have to bring Brennan with him when he returned. "I do need to speak with the others," he said softly. "However, I can give them a little more time to grieve. I'll come back this afternoon. If they've seen anything that might lead me to the killer – and they may not realize they have – I dare not let it wait too long. I wish I could give them more time, Father Ernest, but..."

"No, that's – that's more than kind. Come by at noon. We will break bread together. You can come as our guest and perhaps learn more that way. If we're seeking something that they don't know that they know – an open discussion is the best way to find it."

Booth excused himself and sat afterward in his FBI issue vehicle, feeling like he'd just screwed up the most important case of his life.


	5. Chapter 4 Interpersonal Relations

The usual disclaimer applies.

Chapter 4 - Interpersonal Relations

Tempe stood in the lab, keeping her head down, too tired and inexplicably depressed to defend herself. Cam was angry, uncharacteristically so, and at present was asking sharp questions as she followed the log-in procedure for the body, something she didn't have to do, since Tempe would have taken care of it. Angela was an unhappy bystander for Cam's temper, and she had tucked herself in the corner of the lab, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible – another uncharacteristic reaction. There was a part of Brennan that had begun to wonder if the rules of the world had been turned upside-down with the destruction of Booth's church – a consideration that had no basis in fact or logic, but Tempe was afraid to examine that too closely.

"Did you at least get Booth to sign the case log?" Cam demanded.

Wordlessly, Brennan passed it, not pointing out the attached forensic inventory sheet she'd filled out and printed from her laptop before leaving the scene.

Cam observed the mini binder clip and flipped through the pages, perhaps scanning for some sign that Dr. Brennan had missed a step. Tempe wasn't sure which would anger her more – an inadvertent error or none at all.

Cam flipped forward once and back again. "Oh sh--" Cam rarely finished a profanity, and Brennan was amused in spite of herself. The brief smile that flitted across Tempe's face was met by narrowed eyes. "It's a priest," Cam finished.

"That hasn't been definitively established," Tempe answered. Another sour look from Cam made her add, "But that is my working hypothesis." Cam pursed her lips

Tempe shot a questioning glance to Angela, who only shrugged before slumping a little deeper in her chair.

Cam's demeanor finally softened. "So that's why," she said. Tempe had no idea what that meant. Since Cam's arrival, they had learned to respect one another, and overlook each other's idiosyncrasies. Cam had accepted Tempe's processes and given her broad freedom when investigating for the FBI. Tempe had grown used to Cam's "object lessons" and learned to appreciate her protocols. Booth was _her_ partner, not Cam's, so any agreement to call Cam for her expertise was courtesy for her rank, not protocol. _At least you weren't awakened in the dead of night, _Tempe thought, irritably.

Cam placed the log in the active cases register and turned. "Do you know how I started my morning, Dr Brennan?" Tempe gaped at the use of her professional name. She cast a quick glance at Angela, who was now staring at Cam openly. "I was still in a towel when the first industrious reporter called my house." That might explain why Cam had come to work with two different colors of shoes on, but Tempe figured now was not the most opportune moment to point that out.

"How would you feel if your lab was looted and I didn't bother to tell you until you walked into a building surrounded in yellow crime-scene tape?" Cam demanded.

Tempe stared at her blankly – it was probably one of the afore-mentioned object lessons, which was exactly why she detested them. Perhaps some people required the opportunity to learn by experience, Brennan considered it an inefficient use of time – a commodity she had far too little of. She fought the urge to yell, "Say what you mean!" and ended up biting her tongue instead.

Cam paced for a moment. "I guess I can understand why Booth didn't think to call me – to prepare me for the horde of press that swarmed the Jeffersonian this morning. The fact is he probably should be as far away from this case as possible, but out of respect for him, I won't tell his superior about the connection." Cam took a deep breath and fixed Tempe with a look that made her cringe. "Don't you think you could have warned me? You stepped all over jurisdictional toes with this, Brennan. Couldn't you have told me that Booth was taking over before his A.D. gave him the go-ahead?" Tempe felt her head snap up involuntarily.

"He what?"

Cam hadn't expected that and froze. "Didn't you question why the other crime investigation team was still on-scene?"

"Yes, but –" Tempe began to fume. All morning she'd been emotionally affected by thoughts of what Booth must be suffering. "Booth can be very convincing," she said in a low voice.

Only Angela seemed to realize how very livid she was. "How you can you be so calm about being lied to?" Cam demanded, while Brennan seethed silently, her thoughts bordering on murderous. "As if the two of you weren't already under enough scrutiny – the FBI is uncertain if they want to keep the contract with the Jeffersonian as long as you work here – this will cinch the deal."

"What?" that was Angela, who was now on her feet. "Brennan is the best they've got! This whole team solves cases the rest of the world would give up on. Have they all been smoking something at Quantico?"

Cam whirled. Angela's invisibility had been working right up until she defended Tempe. "Oh shhh--" Cam began to rub the space between her brows. "It's far too early to need a drink this bad," she grumbled.

"They can't be questioning Dr. Brennan's work," Angela pressed on, without explaining how she'd come be present for the exchange.

"How many other FBI consultants do you imagine have to fit bi-weekly visits to a Government Shrink into their schedules?" Cam responded. "They don't like Brennan and Booth's dynamic, and they don't like fact that each managed to kill a suspect in the same serial case in less than a year's time."

"Booth tried to save Epps," Tempe pointed out. "And if I hadn't shot Lappin, he would have killed Booth. What choice did we have?"

"I know that," Cam replied with a long-suffering sigh. "Try telling that to the bureaucrats though. Bureaucrats will drive you out of your mind. Why do you think I'm so cranky this morning? Between the press and pencil-pushers, I'm wondering what ever made me nuts enough to take this job. I think I'm two cuckoos shy of flying over" Angela grinned and Tempe tried to process the metaphor – it was probably a movie reference or something. "It's barely 10:30 and I've had my – uhh – well I've had my ass handed to me so many times I'm beginning to wonder if I have more than one."

Tempe snorted, and all three of them began to laugh. "Could be worse," Angela remarked. "They could hand you someone else's ass." Tempe nodded and pointed at the body on the table. The only side still intact was his back half – literally bones, and the best insulated flesh. "Point taken," Angela replied, while Cam struggled not laugh, failing miserably.

That was the moment Booth appeared, forcing a smile that seemed disingenuous under the circumstances. His reception could not have been colder. Instantly, the laughter stopped, and Angela turned her nose up at him and walked out. Cam glared and muttered, "Speak of the devil – heavy on the devil." Tempe turned away and began to gather equipment, half-afraid she might actually call him an ass if she opened her mouth, and still slightly torn by that same emotion that she'd been fighting since she saw the state of his church.

Cam didn't let him say a word. "You owe me an explanation. My office, now!" She whirled and walked out, certain he would follow. Booth did follow, wearing a look of defeat.

"Poor Booth," Angela remarked.

"Poor Booth?" Tempe repeated incredulously. "He brought it on himself."

"Yeah, maybe," Angela said, nodding. "But really, what else could he do? This is personal. It's as personal to him as your father's case is to you."

"But I followed the rules. We still processed the body."

"No offense, sweety, but that kinda' makes you a freak. Most of us don't compartmentalize when we're personally involved."

Tempe met Angela's gaze, wondering if she was actually compartmentalizing today. "He's not even acting like himself," Tempe admitted. "Usually when he flaunts authority, he's the first to announce it."

Angela grinned, her eyes dancing. "Cock of the roost, crowing his deeds?"

"If the metaphor works…"

Tempe turned her attention to the body, thinking again about the evidence collected so far. She was pretty sure it would turn out to be a priest. DNA might be a simple way to identify him, although priests tended not to be catalogued, unless they had been ill enough to need extensive medical care. One wasn't likely to find priests on a criminal DNA track – or at least that's what catholic public relations would say. Of course, there were always exceptions. Always.

"I'd let Cam take the lead on this autopsy," Angela remarked.

Tempe looked back at her. "I am a fully qualified pathologist," she reminded. "I just prefer to work with bones only. "

"I'm not questioning your expertise, just suggesting it would help smooth things over with Cam. Let her take some of her power back."

"And I should just twiddle my thumbs until Cam is done?"

Angela closed her mouth and gave her a compassionate smile. "No, get some rest, Sweety. Use your mind in another way. Do interviews with Boothe. Anything. Just give Cam some space.

Booth and Cam reentered the cold room. Booth looked cowed while Cam was clearly angry. "I'll let you know when I've finished my preliminary," Cam told Booth.

He nodded. "I'll be interviewing witnesses, but I'll keep my phone handy."

Tempe took an involuntary step backward, uncertain where she fit into the plan, or even if she wanted to fit in.

"Dr. Brennen?" Booth began. Was that respect? "Will you tag along?"

"Why?" she'd sounded cross and his face seemed to drop further.

"Because I need you."


	6. Chapter 5 Charity

**Chapter 5 - Charity**

Father Ernest had told everyone at the parish that they must put aside their grief for the good of the Parish. They were to attend their midday meal with an FBI Agent, to help him in any way they could. Then they were to receive the grieving parishioners. Dana, however, could not move. She'd returned to her cell and begun praying for forgiveness – seeking an absolution that she knew she didn't deserve. Ten thousand _Hail Mary_'s and _Lord our Father_'s could not undo what she had done. It was one thing to bear false witness – a life of lies had not seemed dire sin, not when balanced against the need to answer the call of service. But now, what was she? _Thou shalt not kill. _The commandment seemed to ring in her ears.

Knelt on the prie dieu, she held her rosary in both hands and begged God for forgiveness and assistance. She had been far too long in this lie, and was uncertain how to live in any other way. Yet, she could not see a way out of this but by her own death – hardly an option for a catholic.

And what of the investigator? Would he see her sin displayed on her face – an unwelcome stain visible to those who served God by delivering justice?

The doorbell rang, and she prayed harder, hoping for some direction from her Heavenly Father.

* * *

Their drive had been silent. Booth had told Brennan about the invitation from Father Ernest. He expected castigation, or at the very least questions, but Brennan had said nothing, keeping her attention straight ahead. He might have though she had not heard him, if he hadn't seen her brow raise ever so slightly. This new, silent Brennan had him unnerved. It occurred to Booth that he'd prefer getting K.O.ed by a girl to this.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he said, as he pulled into a parking spot street side. The church lot and street spots were cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. The whole area was considered a hot zone by the latest rules of fire scene control. Until all chemical tests were completed, the public would be steered away. The poor sots who lived right behind the church though – the parish hall residents – were not being told to hold their breath. Sometimes rules made no sense.

"Do you even know what you're apologizing for?" Brennan replied tersely. Caught. He wasn't entirely sure. Misleading her had been a bad decision, but he knew Brennan was probably over that.

"I should not have lied about the jurisdiction arrangements."

"You're damned right. Booth, I'm your partner. You either trust me enough to tell me the truth or you don't. Clearly you don't." She opened the door and got out, straightening her clothes and hair from the car ride the way she always did.

Booth also got out, checking his cell phone status and glancing at the gun in his holster. He found he wanted to leave it in the car, but that was against procedure. It had been one thing to carry one while he spoke to Father Ernest, still half-suspecting the culprit was hanging around. But he was about to share a meal with a bunch of priests, all of whom must be treated as potential suspects, and all of whom could not be seen in that light by Booth.

"Is there anyone you like for this yet?" Brennan asked.

Booth stared at her for a moment. Brennan was a strange study. Terribly unversed in pop-culture references and unfamiliar with the newest slang, she often misused or misunderstood statements of those types. Yet she had an unbelievable learning curve. She'd picked up things from her brief tryst with Sully that still appeared every so often. That was the only place she could have come up with this one, and thoughts of Sully made Booth inexplicably want to hit something.

"No," he answered finally. "They're all possible suspects, and none very likely."

Brennan narrowed her eyes ever so slightly but said nothing, leading the way to the door and ringing the bell.

Lunch at the Parish was strange. The food was simple, but tasty nevertheless. It occurred to Booth that he seemed to be the only one really eating though. Brennan's eyes traveled over everything and everyone, as if she was cataloging information. Most Reverend Ernest was attempting to answer questions and urging the others repeatedly to help. As for the others, none of them seemed like killers. Of course, in the right circumstances anyone could kill and no one knew that better than Booth. But his gut didn't scream cold-blooded psychopath about anyone in the room. The Parish Secretary, Louise Willey, treated Booth and Brennan with suspicion and regularly defended the priests and especially Father Thomas Cleary, but that seemed very normal. Deacon James McMasters was bewildered, still in shock at the thought of having lost a priest in such a ghastly way. Mrs. McMasters, who did the cooking and cleaning at the parish, was unable to sit still for any length of time, and had begun to clean up rather than eat a bite. She was fidgety, but it seemed to be her nature. Father Samuel Green, a new priest ordained only two years before, was visibly shaken, and no doubt wondering if he'd chosen a life that would get him killed in a gruesome way. Father David Dillon had not yet stopped crying. The poor man was so distraught, that even as he attempted to help, he could not stop tears from pouring down his cheeks. He repeatedly bowed his head in silent prayer as Booth asked questions in the hopes of finding someone who seemed out of place, and who may have been stalking Father Thomas with the intention of harming him.

"It is as I told you earlier, Agent Booth," Most Reverend Ernest said. "Father Tom was a wonderful man and a devout priest. He cared for others deeply – hardly the kind of man who attracts enemies."

Booth was feeling lower and lower, and he nodded his understanding, even as Brennan's cell phone rang. She apologized, taking the call just outside the door, and unable to think of anything to ask before she returned, Booth and the Parish residents fell into a long silence.

Brennan returned, immediately taking her seat. She slipped a business card into Booth's hand, and when he looked at it, she had written something on the back. "We have a positive ID from dental. Thomas Cleary."

Booth felt tears gather at the corners of his eyes. He'd known of course, and had let the questioning proceed in that way. Father Tom had been a kind man and Booth's favorite confessor. Some part of him had wanted to believe he was still alive, even though he'd known it would not turn out that way. He wanted his edge back, and he turned to Brennan half hoping she'd announce it to the others in less-than-compassionate way, simply so he could build anger at her and ignore his own grief.

"I assume you know with certainty that our Father Thomas is the victim?" Most Reverend Earnest asked.

Brennan nodded. "I'm very sorry for your loss," she said stiffly. That learning curve again. She gave them a moment before pressing on, "Do you take turns checking on the chapel? It was such a late hour for him to be there."

"There isn't a set schedule per say," Ernest replied. "The chapel is open at all times, though certain parts of it aren't left accessible to the public. Thefts have caused us to be mindful. Father Tom would minister to someone if they seemed particularly distraught, or if arrangements were made in advance. All of us took turns checking the chapel and being vigilant, so he might have come across someone unexpected."

"Still, if he had planned to meet with someone, perhaps he kept a calendar to let us know," Brennan suggested, while Booth watched the reactions of the others. He already knew the answer though.

"Father Thomas had an excellent memory," Father David said. He sniffed and wiped his face again. "He believed that it stayed sharp because he forced himself to remember appointments and things. He didn't even keep a calendar for medical appointments. He only kept a calendar for parishioners' birthdates. Everything else was stored in his memory."

"But if you're seeking a witness to something," Father Samuel said, "you might want to start at the soup kitchen. Many of our regulars visited the chapel in the latest hours. Father David lets them stay with the understanding that they can only be here between eleven and five."

Reverend Ernest gaped at Father David, and for the first time Booth got a glimpse of something other than solidarity. "That's against the rules."

"Should I have turned them to the streets?" David asked. "The homeless are to be pitied and cared for by those who trust and revere the word of God."

Ernest grew angry. "The homeless are very often mentally ill. Yet you let them sleep in the chapel? In the same place where our flock kneels to pray? What have you brought into the house of God?" Reverend Ernest hissed.

Father David sagged in his chair, overcome with another bout of tears so strong that he seemed very frail. For the first time, Booth noticed his hands, slender and long fingered – a strange match to his stout body.

Father Samuel seemed inclined to side with David. "Psalms 140:12, 'I know that the Lord will maintain the cause of the afflicted, and justice for the poor'. James 2:5, 'Did not God choose the poor of this world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom which He promised to those who love Him?' Matthew 5:42 'Give to him who asks of you, and do not turn away from him who wants to borrow from you.' Isaiah 58:10 'And if you give yourself to the hungry'…"

"ENOUGH!" Reverend Ernest roared, rising from the table and turning over his glass of milk in the process. Instantly Mrs. McMaster's appeared with a rag to mop up the mess, watching Father David with a look of pure incredulity.

"Please Samuel," Father David said in a soft voice, putting a restraining hand on Father Samuel's arm. "Do not defend me, for by my choices I have killed Father Thomas."

Brennan sat up straighter, regarding David as if he had made a confession, but Booth saw the words only as the grief of one who may have let a murderer in. "Please, don't argue. The soup kitchen is a good start, and maybe we can get someone there to talk to us. Do you know if any one took your hospitality last night?"

Again consumed by tears, Father David only shook his head.

"It was a warm night, Booth," Brennan said. She was still eying Father David.

Booth was feeling torn. His faith had taught him that Father David's actions made him a good man, his experience taught him that David's actions made him an easy target. He'd not received council from Father David, but he couldn't help but like him in spite of it all.

"If you wouldn't mind, we'd like to see Father Tom's office anyway…" Booth started.

"And a list," Brennan interrupted, "Of any homeless who frequent the chapel."

Ernest grudgingly agreed and practically ordered Father's David and Samuel to comply immediately. Then he led the way to the office.


	7. Chapter 6 Suspects and Victims

John the Baptist was making a list

**Chapter 6 – Victims and Suspects**

John the Baptist was making a list. There was no shortage of targets for this instrument of God, for the world seemed to have been taken over by demons dressed in the holy cloth. John had been collecting the stories: priests who had used their position to molest children, deacons of the church involved in sex scandals, pillars of the community using their position to profit. John had studied the bible endlessly. He knew how Christ would have dealt with them – did he not overturn the tables of the money changers and cast them from the temple in Jerusalem? The murder of innocence would certainly have brought greater wrath. John was sure that Jesus could not come back in these circumstances, and he must clear the way before Herod and Salome should take his head.

Setting a death in an eternal pose had been easy. Taking the life in the future would not be so easy. He could not hope that each victim would halt his attacker, as had happened in the church the night before. But the next to be punished could be executed by his victim, for there was a priest who had harmed John. Sometimes he couldn't even remember it. Today he could remember, in every humiliating, agonizing detail. This one had not been punished by the Vatican. He'd not even been censured by the Cardinal. His retribution was overdue. It would be the beginning of the end – destroying the pretenders, demons and predators so they would no longer poison the church – clearing the way for His return

John's fear and hesitations would have to be set aside – Father Ernest must die.

* * *

Brennan had struggled to maintain her silence. Even now, as they searched the small office space, part of her was screaming to address Father Samuel's bible quotations. He was a fascinating study of a man clinging to tradition, taking the teachings of an ancient book that had been many times translated as pure fact. From a scientific perspective that could hardly be considered fact. Yet she also knew how Booth felt about such remarks. He also believed in heaven and hell and the contradictory teachings of a book lost in translation.

Strangely, Brennan could find no fault in the morality, and that had to be a first. Having lived through the foster care system, she could see value and honor in offering sanctuary to the homeless. Anthropologically speaking, the homeless had a subculture that had its own value in human experience. Yet, with all her analysis, she had never been curious enough about this subculture to do an actual field study. It was that one bit of human existence that she never wished to examine too closely, and which she hoped never to sink to – being a lost and repeatedly discarded youth had been close enough for her. If Fathers David and Samuel used their position to really care for those who were trapped between cultures, then she could admire them. It was the first time she'd actually seen intrinsic value in religion.

Brennan finished going through the drawers of the small, cherry desk. "It's just as they said," she announced finally, "just a birthday calendar. He doesn't seem to have notes on anything." She glanced around the room. It was spartan. There was no art on the walls, no calendars, no pictures. A corkboard of church fliers was its one decoration. The desk itself was orderly, with an ancient blotter and a lamp that looked like it might have come from a second hand store. Crisply starched sheers adorned the window. Wheel marks from a vacuum cleaner showed in the unblemished beige carpeting. Mrs. McMasters must have taken her nervous cleaning through this room too.

"Father Tom was like that," Booth agreed.

"He is the priest you've mentioned, isn't he?" she asked softly.

Booth only nodded, looking wan and aggrieved. Nothing about him seemed normal, from his exhausted face to his plain black socks. The latter point seemed almost strange, for Booth loathed normal socks, ties, and belt-buckles. She was surprised he even owned normal socks, and she wondered if he had consciously chosen the plain accessories, or if his black mood had overridden even the smallest aspects of his personality. It was why she had held her tongue while they dined with the priests.

Father Samuel entered the room with a light knock and held out a couple of notebook pages. "Father David and I finished the list of regulars. I will go to the soup kitchen for dinner tonight and point out as many of these as I can. I don't think you'll find any killers there, though. If there are witnesses, they won't be eager to tell you anything." His blue eyes scanned the room as if looking for something out of place. After Booth took the pages, Father Samuel stuffed both hands in his pockets.

"Even if they are, some of the information will be less than trustworthy – I know, I know," Booth said. "I've dealt with street people before."

Father Samuel was silent a long moment. "I had not meant to suggest otherwise, Agent Booth. I just – I want you to know that Father David would not let anyone dangerous stay – in spite of what he said. He's the kind of priest I want to be. He takes his calling seriously." His fingers traveled to his vestigial tab.

"And Father Tom?" Brennan interjected. She then cringed at the look Booth fixed on her.

"He was a good priest too," Father Samuel said, though there was a slight hesitation. He pushed up his glasses.

"Did he know about Father David's hospitality?" Brennan asked.

"I – he didn't -- I thought he didn't know, but he would have had to if he was frequenting the chapel at night, wouldn't he?"

Now Booth's curiosity brought him round. "Was his visit to the chapel at that hour an unusual event?" His brown eyes fixed unwaveringly on Father Samuel, his hands at his waist.

Father Samuel sighed and shrugged. "Father Ernest did tell you the truth – we all tried to check on the chapel. Most nights Father David and I did the late checks, Father Ernest and Father Thomas usually did the early checks."

"How early – didn't they see your overnight guests?" Booth asked, taking a step closer, using his height to become slightly intimidating.

"Well, Father David asked them to stay in the choir loft. Unless you walked up there, you wouldn't see them. Father David was always up to wake them before five. He'd clean up, give them toast and coffee, and minister to them." A pause. "I know what you're thinking, but he really did great things for those in need. Two of our regulars started to attend mass and one has completely turned his life around. He got a job and counseling – started volunteering at the soup kitchen instead of eating there. His name is Edwards. I could introduce you tonight. He's completely changed his life. He's an inspirational success."

"Suppose for a moment that Father Thomas didn't know about this," Brennan said suddenly, "then tripped across a 'boarder' last night. What would happen – in your opinion?"

Father Samuel looked briefly alarmed, but then shook his head and waved a hand as if to cast his fear aside. "He might have questioned it, but I believe Father Thomas would have understood. And anyway, we didn't invite just anyone to stay – there are unfortunate souls out there who are obviously dangerous or deranged. Luckily, those aren't the kind that would ask to stay here."


	8. Chapter 7 Jurisdiction

**Chapter Seven - Jurisdiction**

Cam was just shutting the cooler door when A.D. Davis strolled into the room. She couldn't remember the last time the Assistant Director had visited the Jeffersonian, but she was sure that visit had been prearranged, and that she had been required to meet him in her office – as far away as possible from the antiseptic and sometimes fetid odors of the autopsy rooms. This was a complete surprise, and not a good one.

With body FHIU-080259 safely tucked away, she began picking up tools for the autoclave. Her years as a cop had taught her that people were uncomfortable with silence and were often willing to end it by getting straight to the point. On the other hand, her years as an administrator in the forensics branch of the FBI's Homicide Investigation Unit had taught her that bureaucrats tended to be megalomaniacs, and that she had about five minutes before he would require her undivided attention. Five minutes was not long enough to put everything away. Though the dead did not require sterility, she found that even the smallest contaminations could sink a case – she hated admitting that she'd have to leave off her protocols to coddle a grown man with the self-important ego of a toddler.

"Forgive me, A.D. Davis," she said politely. "I must log the surgical instruments in and stop the tape. Attention to detail is often all that keeps high dollar mouthpieces from turning psychopaths loose on the world."

"Damn lawyers," he agreed, smiling humorlessly. "I understand," he added, though it was clear that he didn't. He folded his arms atop his overflowing gut, and began to tap his foot absentmindedly – unaware that it betrayed his impatience.

Cam shut off the recorder, then checked the appropriate boxes indicating which instruments were to be sterilized. Next she properly discarded the disposable sharps, notating each for the inventory list. Last she discarded the pads and sponges, sprayed down the stainless steel table, and marked the room for surface steam. When at last she was ready to remove her latex gloves, A.D. Davis' taps had become nearly frantic. She motioned for him to follow her out, halting at the door to flip the orange flag out, then she removed her scrubs and dropped them in the wash bin. "My office is much more comfortable than AR3, why don't we head up there."

A.D. Davis practically growled his answer, but Cam pretended not to notice. She pressed the button for the elevator, but A.D. Davis didn't even wait for the car to arrive in the basement before he demanded results. "The church victim – did you I.D. the body?"

"Yes, sir," she replied and told him who it was. He nodded, a frown settling on his already sour countenance.

"Have you got a finding for cause of death?"

"Blunt force trauma," and then because she loved talking down to arrogant assholes like Davis, she added, "He was beamed over the head with something heavy and silver plated. Chances are pretty good the item was on-hand – not pre-meditated."

His frown grew ever deeper. "Can you at least tell me what it was?"

"I asked Hodgins and Addy to have a look. Hodgins will pick particulates to tell us exactly what materials we're looking for. Addy was going to measure the point of impact to try to get you a shape, though something tells me it will be a candlestick – just so we can really feel like we're stuck in a perverse version of Clue." The elevator arrived and dinged. The doors opened and Cam didn't hesitate; she stepped in with the Assistant Director right on her heel.

"Any hairs or fibers on the body to tell us who we should be looking for?"

"No," she answered as she pressed the button for the administration floor. "As you might imagine, they were burned, along with most of the victim's clothing. Portions of one shoe and sock were still intact, though smoke damage makes anything we'd find there too iffy for a court of law. Either way, I didn't find anything there to give Booth a direction."

"Stomach contents?"

She nodded. "His dinner was mostly in process of digestion. There was a little scotch in his stomach. I'd say that it probably came from what Dr. Brennan logged as a "possible hip flask".

"Hmmm," Davis grunted. The elevator reached its destination and the doors slid open. Cam led the assistant director to the break room. It was only polite to offer him something to drink after all, though she was not inclined to show him her personal mini-fridge, especially since she tended to collect airplane-sized spirits and stored them there.

Cam stopped at the coffee machine and filled her favorite mug. She nodded toward a spare and Davis consented with a polite, "Please." She filled it, then opened the refrigerator, offering the cream to Davis first. He added a splash, then scooped up six sugar packets from the counter and proceeded to dump them in. Cam added cream to her own coffee, but taking another look at Davis' spare tire, decided to opt for Equal instead.

"That stuff will kill you," a voice said from the doorway. Hodgins. "You'd be better off with saccharin. While the FDA convinced the general public that saccharin was so bad, it wasn't true. The FDA was paid to find as they did by the makers of aspartame so that they could get their product on the market. It was a Capitalist shell game." He scooped up a pink packet and ripped the top open, then poured it in his mouth. "Mmm, mmmm." He then made a show of pretending to gag, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. Cam had to struggle not to giggle. Eventually he stood up straight, his blue eyes twinkling. "See, no harm done."

Davis looked extremely offended and regarded Hodgins through narrowed eyes. Hodgins took no notice, only began to fill his mug, carefully turning it so the message on the ceramic surface was clearly visible: "The Definition of Bullshit – a Lone Gunman."

"You're usually too tenacious to emerge from your lab until you have a finding, Dr. Hodgins," Cam observed. "Does that mean you already analyzed those particles?

Hodgins grinned. "Yes, ma'am. Next time try giving me a challenge. Silver over bronze, and a slight hint of sodium bicarbonate and ammonia – that's beyond easy. I could have identified them by trial and error on the first guess. There were no other trace elements present."

"So--," Davis cued expectantly. Hodgins grinned more broadly but didn't answer.

"We're looking for a high quality silver-plated object that has been well cared for by someone who knows the value of baking soda paste," Cam finally explained.

"It's probably time to check the alibis of Colonel Mustard, Professor Plum, and Miss Scarlett," Hodgins remarked flippantly. Davis huffed, so Hodgins explained, "In other words, my money's with Cam – it's a candlestick, probably one that parishioners regularly see at mass, but Zack will be able to give you a shape within the hour; the thing left a good imprint on the skull."

Davis ripped open another packet of sugar and stirred it into his coffee. Cam wondered if he kept his dentist on call.

"Thank you Dr. Hodgins," Cam said, motioning to Davis to follow her. She led him to her office, shut the door and then closed the Venetian blinds. Davis took the leather chair in front of her desk, and she sat in the one behind her desk, depositing her cup on a coaster. She shoved a second coaster at Davis.

"Is anything you've found that which a regular CSI team couldn't have determined," Davis asked, leaning forward until she was sure his butt was no longer in the chair.

"No," she answered, wishing that her conscience would let her lie.

Davis sat back in his chair, running his finger along the edge of the coffee cup. He looked livid, and his nostrils flared with each intake of breath. "So why did Booth bring this to your department?" he growled.

"I could only speculate," Cam answered.

"TRY!" he roared so sharply that Cam jerked and slopped coffee in her lap.

"Because we've earned Booth's trust and he knew we'd provide quick and accurate answers." _And when the chips are down, you turn to your family. _She didn't say that last part out loud. She dropped her gaze to her lap and began attempting to rub the stain out of her skirt.

"I will be assigning a different agent to the case to liaise with the D.C. Police. I cannot continue to anger local officials for Booth's personal witch hunt. Your findings will certainly be adequate for the City Investigators, but be aware that you may need to transport all evidence to the crime storage. When the new investigator arrives, I assume I can count on you to cooperate fully?" Davis stood.

"Of course," she said, the whole time thinking _jackass_. There wasn't any point in calling him names anyway, she'd probably only get out the first half.


	9. Chapter 8 Volunteers

**Chapter Eight – Volunteers**

It was a sheepish Booth that approached Brennan to tell her the bad news, and, as he suspected, her temper immediately flared. The content of the tirade she proceeded into was not what he expect though. "But this is our case. OURS. He can't have me process a crime scene and then tell me he's passing off all my work to another agency without offering any closure! They're just going to toss this one back and forth while this poor priest waits in the cooler!"

In the past, Brennan may have thought things like this, but she had always been more guarded. Booth was seeing a side of her he'd never seen before, just when he thought he'd known her about as well as anyone could. She picked up a piece of paper from her desk, wadded it and threw it at the wall, and when that didn't provide her any sort of satisfaction, she followed it with a paperweight. The object thumped heavily where it impacted the wall, then bounced to the floor with an ear-splitting crash that left it in two pieces. She stared at the item morosely, both fists curled and hanging like anchors weighing her arms straight at her sides.

Booth knelt and looked at the bisected acrylic half-sphere. It seemed a strange item for Brennan to have had on her desk anyway. Her treasures tended to lean toward the arcane or historically significant. The book shelves in her home held spaces to display such items, each cradled in a custom-made stand or protected in a plexiglass shadow-box. A year ago, the only paperweight he remembered seeing on her desk was a petrified core sample from a digsite in Guatemala. "I hope this didn't mean anything to you," he said softly.

"A.D. Davis gave that to me," she retorted sharply. "A token of his respect."

Booth began to chuckle and then outright laugh. "So you launched it," he said.

Brennan nodded, beginning to laugh herself, though she didn't exactly look jolly, and maybe she didn't really see the significance. "I have to hand it to you, Bones. When I'm being destructive, I'm rarely careful to choose ammunition that sends a message. You, on the other hand, don't waste energy unless it speaks volumes."

Now Brennan really laughed. "Guess I did pitch his token respect."

Booth dropped to a seated position, laughing harder than he could have imagined just hours before. He realized he was exhausted and that it probably wasn't _that _funny and yet, for the moment, he was tickled beyond belief. Pretty soon Brennan joined him, sitting on the floor and chortling, their shoulders touching intermittently as each shook with laughter. Each time the gales almost died down, Booth pressed the two pieces of the broken paper weight together and then motioned splitting the halves with a vocalized explosion sound that was very reminiscent of what Parker did when he crashed two matchbox cars together. Both Brennan and Booth started to laugh again each time automatically.

"It was a little childish, wasn't it?" Brennan said at last, running her hand through her fine hair. Here in the office beneath the harsh lights in the ceiling and the recessed, soft white light of the display case, her hair was an even harder color to define. Brown by lamplight and blond in sunlight, it seemed almost red here. In his exhausted state, Booth found himself staring, and he failed to answer her question.

"Booth?" She regarded him with both eyebrows raised.

"I have childish moments, Tempe. You are always a woman," he remarked, partially aware of how over-the-line it was for two people who worked together. He watched her mouth drop open.

"That's the second time today you've called me by my first name," she observed, in a voice that had his attention for all the wrong reasons. "You should do it more often."

In something like a second, his mind replayed the events of Christmas, followed strangely by an image of his desecrated church. His hands brought the two acrylic pieces together again and he stared at the puzzle-piece connection it made. "Maybe I just need sleep," he said aloud, for no reason he could have explained.

"Likewise," she replied, scooting slightly away from him before getting to her feet. "But I don't want to sleep. And I don't want to let Davis sweep this case into the ether. That's what he intends, right? A few press conferences to say very pointedly that the police are doing everything that they can, while he waits for something huge to draw the public scrutiny away and then Father Thomas Cleary goes forgotten and the FBI neatly skirts a P.R. nightmare without any effort."

Booth got to his feet, meeting her fierce gaze with one of his own. "I don't think I could live with that."

"So what do we do?"

"We could investigate anyway. We'll probably both get fired…"

"We could keep it quiet and turn any evidence we find over to the police. Clark Edison would probably keep our secret if it meant he got the credit," she offered.

Seeley Booth smiled. Given the way his day had started, it seemed unlikely, yet there it was.

* * *

"It's very good of you to take such an active part tonight. Extra hands are always welcome," Father Samuel was saying barely two hours later, as Booth and Brennan stood in the soup kitchen, both decked out in Saint Patrick's aprons and hair nets. It had seemed the best way to meet the diners and to create some semblance of innocence if A.D. Davis should get wind of their doings – they could say they weren't investigating, merely volunteering after being made aware of the generosity of the church.

Behind them, a blond man hefted the first of three huge stock pots to the serving area. He set it on a heavy duty trivet on the serving counter and dropped a giant ladle into the pot, hooking the curved handle over the edge. "Ham and Bean in this one!" he said in a loud, booming voice which all of the volunteers heard. He returned to the stove and took the next stock pot. This time Booth realized how very heavy the pots must be – he could see the man's biceps swell with the effort. Brennan scurried to center the next heavy-duty trivet better, just before the man set the pot down. Again, he placed a large ladle inside before he announced, "Chili!"

Then he returned for the final pot, though Booth beat him to it. He picked up two towels before grabbing the large metal handles. "I came to help, I should help," Booth remarked to the man.

He set the pot on the third trivet, and the cook dropped another ladle in it, smiling at him gratefully. "Chicken Noodle!" He announced before returning to the stove. He opened the industrial oven, revealing loaf after loaf of homemade bread, the aroma filling the overly warm kitchen. As if that had been the ringing of some alarm, Booth could hear a din beyond the aluminum roll-down window which was still sealing the kitchen from the cafeteria beyond. Voices hissed and rattled, but one clear, tenor voice projected above the others, restoring order and reminding all to be courteous to their neighbors – that there was plenty of food in God's bounty to go around. That same voice began to lead a prayer and the volunteers in the kitchen silently bowed their heads to join in, even though they could not be seen by the hungry masses in the outer room.

"I had promised to introduce you," Father Samuel said, when the prayer was over. Our fine cook is John Edwards. Before John took his place behind the counter, we bought bread. This is a much tastier and much more nutritious choice. John is a true Godsend. He drives straight over from his job in Arlington and begins cooking without so much as a single break."

Father Samuel helped Edwards overturn a couple of loaves on a giant cooling rack before he resumed. Then he pointed to a woman gathering bowls. "Marie Chang helps every night too and I cannot say enough about her. She's always a server and very patient and kind to our guests." Marie waved a finger and smiled at the compliments paid to her. She was a small woman, barely five feet tall and probably of Chinese descent, as evidenced by her glossy hair and almond-shaped eyes. "This is Dr. John Taylor," Father Samuel introduced further, indicating the elderly man now wielding a large bread knife. "He also serves often. He has the most unique ability to cut bread in equal pieces, which saves on arguments. Dr. Taylor is a veterinarian by day, but a generous individual always giving of his time."

"Please, Father Samuel, you shouldn't gush so," the smiling man said, as he began to carefully slice the warm bread – something Booth thought you just didn't do until it had cooled more. "I preferred to be called John until there were two of us, but don't address me as Doctor Taylor, I beg you. It seems so pompous in here where we are all just people."

Father Samuel snorted, while Booth and Brennan shot looks at each other. "Perhaps it isn't so pompous tonight, Doctor Taylor," Father Samuel continued. "I'd like you to meet Seeley Booth and Dr. Temperance Brennan, our new volunteers." Booth had carefully instructed Father Samuel not to call him "Agent" but Brennan had not been so concerned.

"Another Doctor," John Taylor extolled, setting down his knife to shake her hand warmly. "Are you a medical doctor?"

"Forensic Anthropologist," she said with a smile.

"Ahhh, our kitchen just added some major education," he returned with a wink. John Edwards and Marie Chang exchanged slightly uncomfortable looks.

"Call me Tempe. I'm not interested in being ostentatious either," she said agreeably.

"And tonight I'm just Seeley," Booth added quickly. He needed the group to not be guarded.

"Then we are Johnny, John, Marie, Seeley, Tempe and Father Sam," John Taylor said indicating himself for the first title. "Outside our volunteers include Jim, Jack, Sue, Holly, and Father David."

"And I will introduce you to them later," Father Samuel remarked with a look that bespoke apologies for not finishing his promise.

Booth and Brennan were given a brief overview of how to carry out their serving duties, all while Johnny sliced bread with amazing skill. The "guests" would get a choice of soup and two pieces of bread. The volunteers outside helped to keep the lines moving and assist each guest to find a seat without arguments. Marie manned the ham and bean soup, Brennan took the chili and Booth took the chicken noodle, each understanding that sometimes guests brought their own bowls. The were to insure that each bowl was clean before filling it, and no matter how large or small the bowl, each was served two full scoops of soup. If the private bowl was too small, the remaining went in a polyfoam cup. Johnny stayed with the bread to serve, while John and Father Sam began clean up. It didn't take long for Booth to surmise that John hardly spoke unless it was directly necessary to his task, though the others seemed to include him in every conversation anyway.

When the bread was completely sliced, the aluminum window cover was rolled up, and the onslaught started. The line seemed almost to stretch into infinity. Father David to select a bowl of soup, always managing to speak to each familiarly and kindly, and maintaining peace that seemed unlikely given the sheer numbers.

The hardest thing for Booth was seeing the large number of homeless children in the mix. With each small face, he felt less as if he was investigating and more like a true volunteer, who had no intention of ever shirking this duty again. Brennan had begun their serving by indicating every time they heard a name that she'd seen on the list Father Samuel had provided of regular overnight guests. But that had ceased after the first homeless child, and soon her face formed a look Booth had never seen before. He suspected he was glimpsing a reflection of the discarded child she had once been.

Many of the diners asked about the rumors of Father Tom's death, and each question caused a pained look to Father David and gave Booth a pang. Time flew in a way that seemed supernatural. Weary, sore-footed, and awash in grief, Booth found he'd spent three hours in what felt like minutes, and as they moved out into the cafeteria to gather dishes and wipe tables and seats, hope of finding a culprit had abandoned him.


	10. Chapter 9 The Second Murder

**Chapter Nine – The Second Murder**

John the Baptist had never killed anyone before. He had made his list and prepared the place of repose for his first victim. But faced with the actual job, he had balked. Creeping into the private room of Most-Reverend Ernest Arneson was easy. The police patrols had grown lax after seeing nothing for three days, and the reek of smoke that still lingered around the church kept other visitors at a distance. Even the curious had stopped coming by. There was no security system in the rectory, and if they saw John they'd only have waved to a familiar face, but no one had seen him. He'd slipped in unnoticed and sat down to wait, uncertain how he would proceed and praying for guidance.

John had been in this room before, but that was years ago. He had been a child then and penitent because he'd confused the prayer or dropped something. Like most of Father Ernest's charges, John was keen to be a good altar boy and Father Ernest only took the best. He had taught them that God would punish clumsiness, but forgive them if they requested absolution and took their punishments well. Somehow, Father Ernest had also put himself in the equation, and John could remember the confusion that had followed: the mix of pleasure and shame, lies that were supposedly good while honesty was otherwise touted as supreme, sensations that were undesireable and longed for in the same breath, and loving someone so completely even while disgusted by it. The real liar had been Father Ernest, but John had never understood that until he was already soiled and detestable. And then, when at last he could see with revulsion that he had sinned, Father Ernest had rejected him. Cast out of the Garden by the Snake. No longer was he innocent enough or young enough for the devil in priestly dress. The very day that he'd been cast aside, the sermon had been about the evils of one man laying with another. John had been lost for years after that, adrift in anger, sorrow and self-revulsion.

Memories worked John into a frenzy of rage and anguish. Tears spilled down his face in a deluge, though his storm remained mostly silent. He supposed that's how it came to pass that Father Ernest didn't see him. Or maybe the old man's eyesight and hearing had begun to fail. Or perhaps Gabriel had seen fit to shield John from view so that he might continue his work. The method hardly mattered to John, for it made his task easier. Father Ernest opened the door and went right to his dresser, never seeing the solitary figure seated on his bed. When he opened a drawer, John pulled the empty trash can liner from the wicker waste basket by the bed -- a man possessed by otherworldly direction. In a fluid motion, John dropped it over Father Ernest's head and pulled it tight, pressing the old man into the dresser so that he couldn't lift his hands. John crushed him against the furniture in the same way the priest had done to his boys – probably far more names than John would ever know. But John didn't make Father Ernest suffer those other indignities. He was an instrument of God now, though his memory -- sharp and pitiless as ever -- was flooded with recollections of that time: the stabbing pain and repeated blows to his small body as he was thrust into chest of drawers or the bed frame again and again. Those moments which had cleaved his soul in two.

In his last moments, Father Ernest showed more strength than John had expected, but John was still stronger. Father Ernest tried to turn his head, his gasps and cries pitiable, his struggling fierce. The plastic was thin and might have been easy to puncture if John had given him an opportunity; he never did. John kept the liner over his head past the point when Father Ernest stopped thrashing, past the point when the last muffled cry had sounded, to the point that the old man's bowels let loose. The angel of death leaves a body little dignity. It is the soul that gets the focus after that, though John imagined that Father Ernest would see little of that where he was going to. Like Father Tom, his lechery and other sins would probably be visited upon him by Lucifer. He'd been ushered out of this world without last rights – the way it should be.

John hefted the broken shell and carried it out of the rectory. Again, no one saw except perhaps Gabriel, who John was sure helped him. He could almost see wings. Almost. Perhaps Gabriel would show himself next time.

* * *

Four days had passed. Four days that felt like an eternity. Brennan and Booth had continued to investigate quietly, but nothing came of it. Brennan slept only fitfully as though she had been haunted in her dreams by the ghost of Father Thomas. It wasn't true, of course. If she dreamed at all, they were images of work, or worse, images of insomnia. And she told no one, for she did not believe in ghosts -- or at least, she thought she didn't.

That morning, she had begun a case for the Jeffersonian, sorting bones from a mass grave near the Stonehenge dig-site. Stratigraphy had placed the resting place of the bones at around 10,000 years old. Of course, that was hardly an absolute, given that the grave would have been dug into the soil, though why it should have been dug down more than six feet, she couldn't guess. Artifacts found with the bodies had been dated to Late Bronze Age by seriation, which is only a relative method. But the discrepancy between the two dates was about six thousand years. This was causing a big headache in the archeological and anthropological communities. It was she who would have the honor of settling the matter.

Tempe's first task had been to choose and package samples for radiocarbon dating, which she had done. Results would not be back for another week. This type of assignment, while not as time sensitive as her others, usually would have been enough to keep her mind engrossed. Tempe actually found that she had no patience for it at all right now. While Zack eagerly sorted pieces of eleven skeletons from one another, Tempe's mind wandered repeatedly. She kept thinking about the soup kitchen.

Booth and Brennan had originally gone to help at the soup kitchen in order to hunt for a killer. She had approached the task with the mindset that everyone was a suspect. She wasn't sure why she and Booth had both returned twice to help out, though she was certain of one thing – she was no longer looking for a killer there. She was pretty sure Booth wasn't either, though neither had actually said as much. That was odd. If there had been one thing she could always count on in her interaction with Booth, it was that nothing was off limits. They talked about everything from childhood traumas to sex. Sometimes, if the discussion wandered into the very scientific, Booth would stare at her as if she was speaking another language. And certainly, there were times when Booth would mention some television show or rock star, and she'd feel like she'd missed a comet flying at her head. But those incidents never dissuaded either from chatting about everything. Yet their continued visits to the soup kitchen seemed to be an off-limits topic – a decision arrived at by mutual consent despite the issue never having been addressed.

Tempe picked up a jumble of carpal bones and began to study each, trying to sort them. Four skeletons had been inexpertly marked from the dig. Perhaps they were lying on top of one another, and the archaeologist or assistant that found them had failed to note them properly. Or worse, perhaps a novice shoveled a bunch out, then screened them together. She'd seen that before, though hated to think of anyone conducting a dig in such an unprofessional way.

Her mind began to wander again while she sorted. Always, when she thought of the soup kitchen, she thought of that little girl with the frightened blue eyes and the terrible burn scars. She called herself Pennsylvania, though it was a very unlikely name. She was probably ten or eleven – far too young to be on her own. Both Booth and Brennan had remarked that Child Services should come and get Pennsylvania, and yet neither had called, again almost as if by mutual consent. Pennsylvania was the darling of the group. She didn't have responsible parents, and yet everyone from the "Bridge" Community looked after her. When Booth had asked Father David why no one had called Child Services for her, Father David had said that her burns were the result of her last foster family and that he didn't think Child Services could get within ten feet of her again. Brennan knew there were good foster parents out there, but she also knew how many bad ones there were. And if she were Pennsylvania – when she was like Pennsylvania – she wouldn't trust blind luck either. A runner stayed a runner until there was good reason to stay put. In the meantime, Fathers David and Samuel looked after the kid. They'd taken her to the clinic twice when she was ill, and made sure she was tucked in somewhere warm when the nights were cold. Father David had even managed to get Pennsylvania to attend school at Holy Redeemer. Father David had said that he felt she was slowly coming round and that it wouldn't do any good to call Child Services if she'd only run away again. It was his plan to convince her to stay at the school as a live-in, but he said she wasn't yet ready. The part of Tempe that wanted Pennsylvania safe with a family was halted by the part of her that wanted some assurance that Pennsylvania wouldn't be sent to the wrong family. Perhaps it was the same for Booth.

In fact, they hadn't called Child Services to the soup kitchen at all. There were other children too. Booth had reported a few of them based on their regular haunts, but never mentioning the soup kitchen. It seemed reasonable that Booth would see anything belonging to the church as untouchable sanctuary. Tempe shouldn't see it thus, and yet she must admit that's how she was treating it.

So the case was stalled, and Brennan was slowly being dragged back into the one part of society she'd had good reason to avoid. That subculture of the homeless that she'd never wanted to study was taking her time anyway. Her one small consolation was that Booth seemed to be there with her. For all her education and training, she didn't think she could have handled it alone.

"I don't think that one belongs." That was Zack – his voice so soft, student correcting teacher. It broke through her thoughts as if it had been shouted.

"No, you're right." She took the distal phalange back from the collection. "The problem is that it doesn't seem to go with any of these. Unless I've made another mistake." She looked back over the tables where the jumble of bones was slowly being sorted into four distinct skeletons. Zack followed her gaze, his eyes settling on the hands one-by-one. Sometimes one skeleton could be sorted from another by simply looking. The bones of one body would be naturally darker than another, the size or densities would be obviously different. This time it was going to be much harder and each tiny piece might have to be carefully examined using a microscope, or, worst case scenario, DNA sampling.

Tempe yawned and looked up at the clock. 5:00 p.m. "Oh, it's no wonder I'm starting to make stupid mistakes, Zack, we've been at this for hours. And don't you have a date?"

Zack looked surprised, raising his brows ever so slightly. "There are no secrets in this lab, whatsoever," he observed.

"And you've only now figured that out?" Tempe grinned. She began to clean up quickly, pushing the metal examining trays back to the cooler. It was important to keep the bones in darkness when not working on them. UV light of any sort could break down the proteins. Fluorescent lighting was no longer used in the Jeffersonian for that very reason.

When Tempe and Zack were done cleaning up, she wasn't surprised to see Booth walk through the door. For the last few days he'd come in and hung back, his hands in his pockets, his mood pensive. They hadn't explained to anyone at the Jeffersonian where they were going each evening. So maybe there were still some secrets at the lab. This time, Booth was not carrying himself in the usual way. He looked anxious. His phone rang while he was waiting and he flipped it open in the way he always did when consumed by a case – as if he couldn't get it to his ear fast enough. "I'm getting Doctor Brennan now," he said into the cellular. "Did you already call Doctor Saroyan? You realize you're going to owe them both an apology, right?" Booth pulled his head away from his phone and stared at it, amazed. Then he cursed under his breath. "He hung up," Booth grumbled, looking straight at Tempe. "He expects everyone to jump now, but he won't apologize from being an ass. And then, he hung up!"

Cam burst into the lab. "Did Davis just call you?" She asked Booth.

"Yeah. Bastard hung up when I told him he needed to tell both of you he was sorry."

By now Tempe was starting to feel left out. "What has happened?" She looked back and forth between Cam and Booth.

"Mysteriously another body has appeared at the church. It's posed to match what was in the stained glass window it is beneath, only the window was one that burst in the fire," Booth explained.

"It's all over the news," Cam added. "A group of volunteers that were being covered by the press found it. Davis probably got his head handed to him."

"Better than his dick," Booth observed. That made Cam snort.

"So his problem is our problem?" Brennan snapped. "I thought we were off the case. I've moved on to something else." She could see by the expressions around her that she wasn't fooling anyone.

"Yes, I think I want the apology," Cam remarked.

Zack, who had remained the silent observer, finally said, "But if you're ordered to do something…"

"This isn't the military," Booth interrupted. "However much Davis would like it to be. He can boss me around, but not them." He indicated Tempe and Cam. He hit a couple of buttons on his phone and pressed it to his ear.

"Do they know when the body was placed?" Tempe asked. "And didn't anyone notice more fire, or wasn't it burned this time?"

Booth's call must have been answered. They heard him say, "Sir, about that apology…"


	11. Chapter 10 Demons

**Chapter Ten -- Demons**

Dana was coming undone. Father Samuel tried to coax her out of herself, but her feet had turned to cement and had become anchored to the spot, while she leaned against the wall to keep the rest of her from toppling. If Father Sam had not wiped at her face with a handkerchief, she might not have realized she was weeping. It was clear that Father Sam felt her sorrow, and he sympathized with it, yet it was extreme and even she knew that. How could she explain this to him?

For days she had been tortured by her actions. She was a killer -- the person who had unquestionably ended the life of a man she had trusted with her deepest secret. It was his attack that had allowed her to keep her silence – that and certainty that she had not set fire to the church. She had thought she might be somewhat justified for the accident, and was convinced that she had not been the greatest villain in that evening. Now she was not so certain. Now she began to fear she had done everything and more.

Dana watched the bedlam around her with tunnel vision. Everything but the area where the body rested was blurry to her. People appeared as if from nothingness – friends of the church, police investigators, then FBI. Once a reporter had jabbed a microphone at her after asking an inane question that might just as well have been spoken in Chinese for all that it made sense to her. She'd stared at him. Or was it a woman? She wasn't sure. Father Sam had been with her ever since though she didn't know what had become of the reporter.

Now the investigators were familiar – Doctor Brennan, Agent Booth, and a group of their coworkers. Doctor Brennan was examining the body with the help of a very pretty woman with dark hair and eyes, though Dana was uncertain how she knew those details when both were wearing protective suits. There was a new man with them as well. He had striking blue eyes and was overseeing the removal of the bathtub. What was a bathtub doing in the burnt out chapel? Why was he directing them to pack it so carefully when it was charred inside and split in two?

All the while the two women, Doctor Brennan and the other, photographed and cataloged the placement and debris around Father Ernest. Was that Father Ernest? They believed so. He had disappeared in the night and then this discovery had been made. It was not as though they could positively identify this poor soul which more closely resembled a burnt offering than a person. Bones and teeth and cinders. The body had mirrored the window that had once stood above him. He was positioned as though crucified on a metal cross that had survived an oven. Miraculously the church had suffered no further damage. Even that seemed to rouse her suspicions. She, Dana, had loved that window most. She had been appalled by the destruction of her church. But she had also loathed Father Ernest. There were stories – people who had other personalities living within them. Could she be one of those? If she had killed one priest, would not the other body also be her doing? Could she be harboring a criminal in her own skin?

"This is my fault," she whispered in a voice that did not sound like her own. They were the first words out of her mouth in hours.

Father Samuel patted her shoulders. "No. Do not blame yourself. If you do, then I must. Both of us stayed late at the soup kitchen. Neither of us checked on Father Ernest until he was missed this morning. My dear friend, you are not responsible. This is the work of a demon – and it will be Satan that welcomes him when at last he faces his death."

This brought her no comfort. "Every house divided against itself shall not stand," Dana quoted. Father Sam regarded her somberly before she added, "This house is collapsing."

"No!" Father Sam replied fiercely. "We are not divided. Father Ernest divided us. I will not say that he earned his fate. No one deserves a cruel death, but it was a trial to keep him after all those accusations. If you believe that by speaking out against him, you are more to blame than I am, stop. You were right. Father Tom and I were cowards for not backing you. Maybe there were no solid witnesses against Father Ernest, but we all knew the truth."

Dana nodded feebly, but when she'd referenced a house divided, she'd meant herself, for she knew what she was. A pretender. And now, a killer. No amount of good deeds could change the truth, and this revelation was far too long in coming. At the verge of confession, she heard Dr. Brennan say, "The time of death would have to be between eight and ten p.m. last night then." Dana was uncertain why that declaration swam through the fog in her mind.

"There, you see," Father Sam said, patting her. "We would not have been back -- even on a normal evening. We're usually at the soup kitchen until 9:00 and making chapel rounds until 11:00. Please, don't torture yourself further. Come into the rectory and rest."

Dana followed him like a child, allowing him to open the door for her and usher her to the rectory sofa. He gave her a glass of wine that was kept for solemn occasions and covered her with a throw. There was a whispered conversation between Father Sam and Mrs. McMasters, but Dana did not understand a word of it. She had slipped too deeply into herself.

* * *

"I just don't see it," Booth said.

Jack grinned. "That's why you have me," he replied. "It is brilliant really. What your killer has is a knack for problem solving. He says to himself, 'How can I burn the body completely this time without further destroying the church?' Answer: a bathtub. Pour the accelerant on the body. Drop the bathtub over it upside down. Drop a match in the drain hole, or this other hole here on the end, and Voila! can see the results. This body has far less tissue than the last."

"Yes," chimed in Cam. "Meaning I'm pretty much useless."

"Perish the thought," Jack returned. "If you want to pick a third wheel, I vote Davis."

Booth made a sour face and looked back at the Assistant Director. He had been brought out under threat – Agent Booth had indicated intent to let Brennan answer the media questions. "Hodgins, where do you think this tub came from?"

Jack didn't want to guess, though he suspected it was something found at the city dump. "Let me run some tests. I might find trace particles to answer that."

"I wish there had been prints. I'd even take a partial – anything," Booth remarked with so much frustration in his face that it was palpable. "What do you make of this other hole drilled in the end?"

Jack grinned, for this was an obvious thing to him. The hole in question could have doubled as a second drain and might have been made with a hole saw. "Did you know that pyromaniacs think fire is a living thing?" He didn't wait for Booth to nod, though he did. "There is some arguing it, scientifically speaking – if you reach a bit. A fire eats, breathes and grows. ALIVE! This extra hole is to provide oxygen. The fire might have smothered before the body was consumed, but for this ingenious solution."

Booth's eyes flashed. "You planning on starting a fan club, Hodgins?"

Jack felt somewhat deflated. He caught Brennan's eye. She was shaking her head. "What I'm saying is that this killer is not an idiot. The FBI uses profilers to help them narrow down suspects, right? This one knows fire the way you know firearms. He could even have been a fireman at some point in the past."

"Yeah," Booth admitted. "Or maybe he was an alter boy that understood why the fire snuffers worked."

"No," Jack insisted, motioning for the lab guys to stop loading the tub. "First. By the smell, your accelerant is probably acetone. It burns hot and has a relatively low flashpoint – easy to light, hard to put out. Look at how the tub split. This was a hot fire. If the tub had held longer, there would be even less bone to examine. Face it, most amateur fire bugs don't understand the use of acetone. They use less interesting accelerants like gasoline." He stopped and swabbed the back of the tub with a folded napkin from his pocket, then motioned for the lab team to resume their task. "Smell." He held the specimen out to Booth, who took a whiff and coughed. "Polybrominated diphenyl ether!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

"In English…" Booth retorted.

"Really?" Brennan remarked, leaving the body to close in on the pair.

"Yeah. Cool, huh?" Jack said, forgetting to translate.

"Hodgins!" Booth cued.

"Spray-on flame retardant. It's all over the outside of the tub, but not the inside. This guy didn't want to further damage the church, but he definitely wanted his victim reduced to ashes."

"And the ring of soot!" Brennan burst, catching on. "He must have swept it over as an additional firebreak, backed up by the stacked stones."

"Right!" Jack agreed. "That's why the body wasn't discovered earlier -- the wall of stones hid the bathtub and no one questioned it. But that wasn't an accident. Maybe yesterday's volunteers stacked the stones similarly, but if you could see photographs, I'll bet they've moved. The killer was taking no chances of causing further destruction to the church."

"What little we got to see of the first body seemed almost accidental. Even his accelerant was something on hand," Brennan stated, stunned. "There is no question your killer has escalated. This isn't just premeditation; it borders on compulsively ordered."

Jack nodded fervently. "This killer is brilliant. Yes, he might have researched enough to find all of these details, but to have access to each of these chemicals, and to use them so successfully on his first try – this guy is not a fire virgin."

Brennan frowned slightly, but it hardly dampened Jack's enthusiasm. Jack continued to explain, "He's not someone who adores fire though. A true pyromaniac would never consider ending the life of his monster. Consider John Orr, the infamous California arsonist who impeded fire fighters when they had almost contained the Los Angeles fires a few years back. He told police it was worth sacrificing his life to let his 'child' grow. But this guy – he's the opposite. It got away from him once. This time he was not taking any chances. And – and he has the know-how and the free access to the best chemicals in the business to control it."

Booth smiled ever so slightly. "This is good, Hodgins," he said, nodding. "I can work with this." Already his cell phone was out of his pocket and he was searching for a number.

Jack turned, feeling triumphant, only to find a silent priest standing there. He was trying to catch Brennan's eye, and finally succeeded. "I'm so sorry, Tempe," the priest said. For the first time in a while, Cam looked up. She and Jack locked eyes and he shrugged. How strange to hear a priest refer to Doctor Brennan so familiarly. "This must be so hard for you. I'm certain we won't see you or Seeley tonight, but I hope you will return to the kitchen at some point when this nightmare is over. Even if you don't, I want you to know it is a comfort to me that you are looking into these events again. We are really blessed to have you. I have always thought the FBI made a mistake returning this case to the police. Father David and I need closure desperately, and I know in my heart that you will make it happen. In the meantime, I will keep you both in my prayers."

Brennan raised an eyebrow at the point he mentioned prayer, but did not question it, a fact which surprised Jack greatly. "Thank you, Father Sam," she said. "We cannot make it to the kitchen tonight, but we will come again. I think –" she hesitated, "I think Agent Booth will need to talk to you later."

"I will be at the soup kitchen for the usual shift, and then return here. Father David plans to remain though. He's taken this hard. Still, he will be available as you need. You may consider all of the rectory staff at your service. I must attend my duties, but please tell Seeley that I will give him every spare second – whatever he needs. He is welcome to meet me there if it cannot wait." The young priest waited only for her to agree to pass the message, then he left.

"Brennan, have you and Booth been volunteering at a soup kitchen?" Cam asked.

Brennan merely nodded, before returning to her crime scene.


	12. Chapter 12 A Child Shall Lead Them

**Chapter 11 – And a Child Shall Lead Them**

Father Samuel was trying to contain chaos. Never before had he fully appreciated the quiet command brought by Father David. He'd appreciated the man, yes. In fact it was Father David that had restored his faith in the church when his decision to become a priest had been tested to the limit. In a blink Sam was back in those dark and disheartening days when each morning brought new accusations about men of the cloth, when parents eyed each vestigial tab suspiciously and chose suddenly to keep their children with them at mass rather than send them with a new priest for a catechism lesson. New to the parish, Father Samuel had almost resigned and given up his calling, ashamed to wear the same traditional costuming as the sort of men who could harm a child and then claim to be pious. Were it not for Father David he would have lost so many experiences that had become treasured memories. Yet Sam did not know how to do the same for David now – to quell doubts that were obviously shaking the older man to the core. And Sam was painfully aware that he could not fill Father David's shoes. If Father David resigned, how would Sam manage the flock?

Father Samuel tried to lead the meal prayer as Father David always did. The hungry throng did not yield the din to him in the usual way. It was as if Father David radiated an inner peace and just his presence was enough to quiet them all. They'd shove and jocky for position only until they spied the charismatic priest, and then generosity would emerge – as though Jesus himself had entered the hearts of those present and stilled their restlessness. Father Samuel did not possess this gift. While his head was bowed and his eyes were closed a fight had broken out in the back of the room. A fight!

"Everyone PLEASE!" he roared. "There is plenty of soup and bread as always! Everyone will eat tonight!" Moments later he was forced to admit he'd not been truthful when the squabblers left him no alternative but to eject them. He prayed for patience, and prayed for the hungry souls forced back into the night, and then he added another prayer for Father David.

Sam felt a small tug on his jacket and looked down to see Pennsylvania, her overly large eyes beseeching, "Did Father David get dead?" she asked in her small voice. Somehow the throng around her heard the question. The stillness that followed was such a sharp contrast with the previous noise level that it was as though all the air had left the room.

"No, Pennsylvania, no," he answered, crouching to meet her gaze. Her hair was unruly and her clothes were filthy. But her hands and face had been scrubbed clean, the way Father David always insisted. Probably she had been proud to have remembered to wash without prompting, only to find the one who encouraged it was not there to see.

A man behind Pennsylvania piped in then, "We heard another priest was torched." As if it had been wrong to speak, the man then ducked his head, attempting by demeanor to shrink in place. Around them, every dirty, unshaven, or toothless face seemed to beg for reassurance.

Father Samuel was uncertain what to do. He could hardly deny the news which had so clearly made the rounds. The police would probably prefer he not say anything at all. What of the FBI? "Father David is at the Rectory right now. He is – he is heartbroken but he has not been hurt."

"Then why ain't he here?" a man's voice asked. A croaky woman's voice added, "He always comes – rain or shine." And then there were so many people asking questions at once that he couldn't sort most of them out. But he heard the kind of things that a small voice inside himself had been wondering. "Is he even safe at the rectory?" and "Father David would not forget us unless the worst been done!" and, "If it weren't him this time, how long 'til it is?" Samuel stood again, alarmed at the panic that was traveling through the group like some great monster that devours hope.

It was then that the seldom-used but booming voice of John Edwards broke through, "Father Ernest was killed. Father David is in charge now."

Father Samuel again felt the tug at his jacket. He looked down at Pennsylvania and the child asked, "Will they let him be the boss?"

Again, the unnatural silence fell and Sam tried not to let his worst fears show on his face. The true answer was probably not. Father David had filed complaints on behalf of two alter boys – complaints against Father Ernest. Father David also served God first and the church second, and while the church claimed to encourage that, it was not so. But most damning to any future leadership position was Father David's self-blame. He made an easy scapegoat, bending the rules of the church for the good of the people – these people. At last an inspired answer occurred to Father Samuel. "He had to meet with the police, but he did not want to bring them among you. He will return as soon as he can."

The word police was echoed around him with horror. It was the most distrusted word among the homeless, not that all police deserved such infamy, or even most. There were stories of rogue police who used their position to inflict pain or who blamed terrible crimes on innocent vagrants because it cleared their cases. Police was a word not to be used lightly in a soup kitchen.

Pennsylvania thought a minute, nodded and took her place in line. Miraculously, others began to follow. Father Samuel could only marvel at her ability to do that which he couldn't. Someday, Pennsylvania might be a lot like Father David – though as a female, she would probably never be a priest. There were a few women that had been ordained, but they were rare and discouraged. Nuns did not hold positions of leadership in the Catholic church per se. A mother superior would oversee other nuns but always be beneath the local priests and the bishops. Funny, he'd always before imagined Pennsylvania finding a permanent home in the church. Perhaps she would find another path in which to use those leadership skills. Father Samuel amused himself by silently calling her "Little madam president."

* * *

Cam was in her office even though the hour was very late. Although she wasn't the only one in residence this night, the Jeffersonian took on a mausoleum-like quality when it was so empty. Floors below, Dr. Brennan was working without her usual helpers. She'd taken back the original body and added that of Most Reverend Ernest Arneson – or at least it appeared to be Arneson. Confirmation would come the following day, though at the rate of Dr. Brennan's current obsession, perhaps a little sooner.

Cam was not obsessed with this case. She refused to be. Her reasons for inhabiting her office rather than her home were for want of privacy. There had been a time when news of a particularly prominent murder would not have brought reporters to her door. These days they knew her address, her unlisted phone number, her unlisted cell number and probably the color of her underwear. She threw a dart at the target suspended on the back of her office door and, at the same time, it opened. "Shit!" the incomer cried.

"In civilized circles we knock," she said, trying not to laugh. "That might be the reason." She hadn't hit Booth with the dart, though she wasn't certain at the moment if that was good or bad.

"I could swear I knocked," he said, looking at the reverse of the door as if his fist print might be visible. That was one of Booth's apology-less apologies.

"It's late Booth, what brings you to my door WITHOUT knocking?"

He smirked. "Bones told me to scram."

"Scram – you know, I don't believe I've ever heard her use that word." Probably what Brennan had said was something like, "Go find someone else to annoy." Apparently _she_ was the someone else. Cam didn't invite him to sit, but he did anyway, so she pulled an extra coffee mug from her bottom drawer and filled it about halfway with the sludge from the coffee pot she had appropriated.

"_That's_ where the breakroom pot went," he observed, grabbing one of her darts and flinging it at the target. It landed right on the tip of Davis' nose. Booth grinned in a self-satisfied way. "And I see you found a new cover for your dart board. Feng shueee and all, right?"

Cam opened her mini fridge and produced a small bottle of Jack Daniels. "Screw feng shui, that is pissed-off contemporary." He cocked an eyebrow, not pointing out that she'd used a full curse word. She topped Booth's coffee with the alcohol and nudged the cup toward him while he tried not to laugh and failed. "So dare I ask why Brennan ejected you?" she wondered.

"Frustrated," he said as he took a sip. "Though I may have uhh been a bit pushy about trying to come up with causes of death.

"No blunt force trauma?"

"Not this time. I tried to get her to guess but…"

Cam choked into her coffee. "All this time working with Brennan and you haven't figured out that she hates conjecture?"

Booth set his cup down and leveled a gaze at her. "Sometimes she makes educated guesses, and anyway I would put a lot more faith in her guesswork than in some people's facts." He glanced surreptitiously at the very holey picture of Davis that she'd attached to her dartboard. "I know why she's here. I know why I'm here. Why are you here at –" he looked at his watch. "Oooh, that can't be right." He frowned.

"Because that shithead," she motioned toward the dartboard, "somehow leaked my personal numbers and address to the press." She threw another dart and missed the board entirely. "Perhaps I should lay off the spiked coffee."

Booth was laughing in that way he did sometimes with his eyes crinkled, his brows raised, and all of his pearly-whites showing. Cam loved that laugh. Once upon a time it was why she'd gone to bed with him. Funny how time had changed things. They were still close, far closer than she was completely comfortable with given their working relationship. But she didn't picture him naked anymore, even at her weakest moments, and sometimes, just sometimes – there was sibling-like quality to their camaraderie. That fact made their past seem a little incestuous and the mere thought left her feeling awkward. "I'm too tired," she blurted, getting to her feet for no reason she could explain. "So, uhhhh, no blunt force trauma. Did you succeed in getting her to conjecture before you irritated her into booting you?"

Booth eyed her with curiosity. "The last thing I got out of her was 'for all I know he burned to death'."

Cam froze. "Morbid thought."

"Yeah," Booth agreed. "And yet I cannot convince the other two priests to vacate that rectory even for a few days. I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to end up living there to watch out for them."


	13. Chapter 13 Hypothesizing

**Chapter 12 - Hypothesizing**

Tempe never had gone to sleep. She'd worked an all-nighter, examined every bone at least twice, and still had nothing to show for it – nothing more than the two thoracic fractures she'd found in the first hour, and while probably painful, they most definitely didn't provide a cause of death. She was no longer alone in the lab, not that it mattered. Angela was in the midst of programming in dental x-rays for an overlay comparison (a quicker solution than waiting for the forensic odontologist due that afternoon). Zack and Hodgins each had their own assignments, but seemed more interested in rehashing Zack's date of the previous evening which had apparently not been a good one. Tempe wasn't entirely certain why, for though the two had discussed it at length, their conversation drifted into her mind as disconnected snatches that she was too busy to make sense of.

The evidence just didn't point to anything. Other than the discoveries Hodgins had made at the crime scene, there was nothing to draw a conclusion from: no skull trauma, no breaks in the cervical vertebrae, no defensive fractures to the phalanges. The rib fractures were the only new breaks in this skeleton and it could actually have happened post mortem. The bones were telling her nothing, and so she had nothing to offer Booth. That was unacceptable.

And where was Booth? She was surprised he hadn't already arrived, urging information that she didn't have in the way he'd done last night. They'd spoken briefly by phone an hour ago, when Booth had called to say he was postponing their appointment with Sweets. He'd not even asked her if she'd found anything. At the time she'd been thankful, now she was worried. She needed to offer him something. They had to catch whoever was killing everyone at Booth's church…

"If the evidence doesn't add up to anything, shouldn't the lack of evidence add up to something?" she wondered aloud without looking up, hardly aware that she'd interrupted Hodgins' dating advice.

The lab grew eerily silent. Hodgins was the first to speak, "There must be a million ways to kill someone and you want us to narrow it down by what's not here? What if we missed a method?"

"What investigative value would that have?" Zack asked.

Both valid points, and yet she didn't want Booth to walk into the lab wearing that hopeful look while she had nothing to give him. "It's just – there's nothing except the thoracic fractures. I have no reason to think they're important, but I do." Finally she looked up. She hadn't even heard the lab door open, and yet she suddenly became aware that there were five people in the room, rather than three. All of them were gaping at her, but Sweets and Booth looked the most incredulous. What a way to tell Booth she'd hit a blockade.

"You're going on instinct, Dr. Brennan? That's awesome. It's like a breakthrough," said Sweets.

Tempe felt foolish and it must have showed on her face because Angela instantly frowned at Sweets. "Brennan often sees evidence in bones that others miss. To the rest of us, she always seems intuitive," she defended as she stood, knowing how uncomfortable Tempe was with the concept of trusting instinct. "You're just tired," she told Tempe. "Probably there's a scientific reason it's drawing your attention, and if you'd slept, you'd know exactly why. Where are the fractures?"

Grateful, Tempe indicated the location on herself for the benefit of Angela and Booth, who were less versed in science. Then she showed them the actual bones. "A parallel break in the crest of each fifth rib seems – odd. If the sternum were cracked too, we might have a cause of death. The fractures are fresh, but could have been produced post mortem, except I can't see how that would happen by putting the body beneath the inverted bathtub or even by carrying the body from wherever he was killed to the burn site."

Hodgins folded his arms against his chest. "You know, that's something I don't get. If the old man wasn't killed in the church and never left the grounds, how is it nobody saw anyone out of place?"

"Maybe the killer is familiar, maybe even part of the staff," Sweets suggested.

"We've interviewed the staff. I _do_ trust my gut, and my gut tells me that no one who lives there killed Father Ernest, or knows anything about fire," Booth supplied. He leaned back against the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Worse, the chemical trail that seemed so promising has so far led to a dead end. Sure there are limited people who buy the fire stop stuff – none who have motive, means or opportunity. And it turns out this stuff is mostly purchased at Christmas, for putting on Christmas trees. Fact is, the killer could have been hanging on to some for a couple months. Do you think he's been planning it that long?"

"Does it have to be a he?" Angela interjected.

"Most serial killers are male," Brennan answered. "This has many hallmarks of a serial, but even if it isn't, statistics favor a male."

"Besides, hauling such a large cadaver from anywhere other than the church suggests some upper body strength," Zack said. "But I'm uncertain why we've ruled out the murder in the burnt out church."

"We haven't exactly," Booth explained. "It's only that Mrs. McMasters said Father Ernest wouldn't set foot in there. He didn't want to see the charred remnants of what had been his sanctuary for so many years. Apparently, he wasn't even helping the volunteers, though everyone else was. He rarely left the rectory, and my money's on there for the murder site, though our searches turned up nothing: no blood, no signs of a struggle, not even any signs of forced entry."

"So all the evidence was in the first murder," Hodgins remarked.

"Except that wasn't followed up properly. In shuffling things back and forth between police and FBI, it seems the actual candlestick – if that's what it was – was never found." Booth flexed a fist as he spoke.

"So maybe the killer collected a trophy," Sweets surmised. "But then, what's the trophy this time? Are you sure this is the same killer?"

"The positioning is consistent, the location is the consistent," Tempe explained, "Although admittedly, the fire method and the causes of death are not consistent. Still, mirroring the stain-glass windows – that was kept out of the press." She looked back at the skeleton. "There's so much less evidence than before. Usually they get more careless, not less."

But Hodgins was staring at the skeleton – not his usual sort of focus. "Assuming those fractures happened during his death – and we don't know that to be true – it would seem to rule out a few things." He began to wring his hands. "That's just such an unsupported assumption."

"Assumptions can keep an investigator from seeing the real evidence," Zack quoted. That was something Tempe had told him on his first day. Both Zack and Hodgins looked anxious, a feeling that Tempe understood completely. She preferred hard science, using tangible facts to reach indisputable answers.

"So make a theory and then challenge it," Angela suggested. "It's unconventional, but sometimes you learn more from being wrong than from being right." Tempe gaped at her and suffered the inexplicable sensation that the floor had just disappeared from beneath her feet.

"Just think of it as doing the process backward," Booth said with a nod. "An experiment and nothing more." He was trying to be reassuring while Hodgins and Zack looked like Tempe felt. Booth directed his next words at Hodgins. "It's like your lone gunman argument, right? You look at the official story and you don't buy it. So you come up with what could have happened and see if it fits the facts as you know them." He gave Sweets a sideways glance that Tempe did not know the meaning of. She knew that Booth didn't put much stock in Hodgins conspiracy theories, even though a few happened to have turned out to be correct. But Hodgins warmed to this argument.

"Okay, yeah," he said, nodding.

Sweets jumped in, "And you can tell that the man didn't die of getting clobbered, shot, stabbed or by a fatal fall. That's worth something, right?"

"You missed beheading," Angela added sarcastically.

"Actually, he could have been stabbed, not all fatal stab wounds strike bone," Zack said matter-of-factly.

"No," Tempe interrupted. "We can rule out stabbing. It's messy and no matter how careful you are there is always some spray or splatter. We didn't use a luminol or blue star test, but the crew did use the black light in all rooms of the rectory and in the church. No blood, right?"

"Right," Booth agreed, meeting her gaze. "And there wasn't a point that the rectory was ever empty. There were no screams or cries. If the murder took place in the rectory, it was quiet."

"So we're looking for a quiet, bloodless method of death that causes no marks to the bone except the rib fractures which were most likely caused by being compressed against something," Zack offered.

"Why compressed?" Sweets wondered.

Tempe answered, "The way the bone cracked." Sweets looked fascinated but confused, so she picked an example he'd recognize. "Think what happens with clay when its been bisque fired. If you gouge it with a tool hard enough to crack the piece, you'll also see a divot that matches the shape of the tool. But if you push it against something that causes the break, it cracks cleanly enough that you could glue it back together and it fits perfectly." She held her hands up and fit her curved fingers together to indicate the fit. "But of course that example isn't the most accurate because these ribs are only fractured, not broken clean."

"So whatever method was used to kill him might have included his being pressed against something chest high?" Booth asked.

"Right," Tempe responded, pleased that he'd understood so well.

"So might he have been strangled?"

"No marks on the cervical vertebrae to indicate a cord or garrote, but if someone strangled him with their hands, it might fit," Zack replied.

"Though you'd usually see damage to the hands as the victim tried to stop it," Tempe added.

"So he was slammed against something and his arms were pinned so he couldn't fight back," Booth guessed.

"But there's no marks on the arm bones to confirm the theory," Tempe stated, sighing.

"No, but the premise points to a very strong killer, which fits." Booth soothed. "Keep working on it, Bones. You'll find something. You've never let me down yet."

Sweets looked back and forth between them, while Tempe didn't know whether to feel flattered or even more worried. This might be the time she let him down, and she was certain that this was the one case when failing wasn't an option.


End file.
